In
the body of the car we’re secure as children. It’s August. We peer through window-eyes
at passing fancies. Comfortably couched, walking’s forgot, as unseen wheels
carry us where fortune turns. Our circulating life (maps, medicine, make-up, munchies,
marbles) is secreted in the body, hard to find when required. Sedentary as
watchmen is our existence, navigating this proportioned feat of tin at
disproportionate speeds. It bumps, lunges, traverses, scrapes, screeches,
circles. We are indifferent guardians of its erosion. Contra advertisements,
the body of the car spends much time halted at red, fossicking for parks,
stationed at hasty angles collecting spiders.
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